


Toska

by wacomintuos



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 15:51:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8673292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wacomintuos/pseuds/wacomintuos
Summary: Toska (Russian): A sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without a specific cause; a longing with nothing to long for.Placed on indefinite hiatus.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THE INFAMOUS KEITH FIC
> 
> Edit: I forgot to mention what a buttery is. It's a kind of bread roll that you only get in Scotland and I only realised halfway through the first chapter that you only get them here but I figured to hell with it, they're great, I'm keeping it! If you ever get the chance, please try them. They're amazing.

When Corvo wakes up, he decides that his first priority is to stay away from that apothecary and that damn outsider. 

 

Of course, it's not his first thought, nor is it his second or even third. He's a better man than that and so of course his first waking thought is certainly not the thought of the poultice that Emily gave him, the one that he tucked under his pillow, the one that he swears gave him bad dreams. 

 

It can't be a coincidence. Emily said that it gave her bad dreams, too. 

 

So, as Corvo washes his face and brushes his unruly hair, he decides that he's going to steer clear of the apothecary, that outsider and of course, sweet Granny Rags, and he's going to make sure Emily does the same. 

 

The girl has yet to rise, but Corvo doesn't take it to heart. He's always been a morning person and because it's been cold lately and of course it's the holidays, so she doesn't actually have school today, he'll let it slide. Emily is a deep sleeper anyway, so even if he tried, he wouldn't be able to wake her. It's a habit from a life of luxury, he supposes. 

 

He sighs, getting dressed in the cleanest things he can find. Usually he's too busy to wash his stuff unless it's his day off, but Emily's clothes are washed as soon as there's enough to fit in the machine. Luckily there aren't any stains on his t-shirt, and it is a day off, so he'll shove a load in whilst he remembers. 

 

He fumbles with the washing machine dial, his hands sluggishly moving the dirty clothes into the bowl. Corvo knows he could do with a strong coffee right now, and perhaps a cigarette, but he's out of both. Emily’s snoring in the next room, he's sure he can go out to the shops and come back before she wakes up. And even if she does wake up, she's thirteen now, she can handle herself for ten damn minutes.

 

He hits the on button and the bowl begins to spin. Corvo lets out a breath he didn't know he's been saving because once again he's completed this menial task without injury. Another thing to congratulate himself for, maybe. 

 

He sits there with the laundry basket for a while, but decides after a while that this is a new kind of pathetic, even for him, and he'll be much, much better with nicotine in his lungs and coffee in his stomach. Corvo pulls himself up from the kitchen floor and checks on Emily's door, knocking gently before entering. She's still in bed, but only half asleep, rubbing her eyes before she sees Corvo and smiles at him. She has a beautiful smile, just like her mother. “Mph, g’morning, Corvo.”

 

Corvo grins and kisses her forehead. “Good morning, sweetheart. I didn't want to wake you but I'm going out to the shops, do you want anything?”

 

“Was already awake,” Emily lies. “Can I have some chocolate?” Corvo gives her a stern look and she rolls her eyes. “Okay, okay. What about some butteries? We haven't had them in a while.”

 

He thinks about this for a second, then nods. “Yeah, I think we can do that. I'll even get you your special cheese for it. That sound good?”

 

She makes a soft sound of approval. “M’kay, but I'm going back to sleep.” Emily turns her back to him, and Corvo jokingly tugs on her hair, making her laugh. “Be nice, Father.”

 

“Yes, Daughter,” he dutifully replies. He looks down just to make sure he's definitely wearing shoes (he is) and that he has his wallet in his pocket (he does, surprisingly) before leaving Emily's room as quietly as that rat she's been begging him for for the past year. 

 

Luckily he doesn't live too far away from the high street, which has been somewhat aptly nicknamed Bottle Street by just about everyone because of the distillery and the fact that no matter what dark corner you end up in, you can always see a pile of broken glass and whisky bottles. Luckily, it doesn't take long for him to walk down. In fact, he's so engrossed in a poster advertising the Golden Cat that he doesn't even see the man he's about to walk into, and said man makes a sound of shock and surprise. 

 

“Shit, sorry-” but when the man looks up at him Corvo trails off because life just really hates him, doesn't it. “You.”

 

The outsider’s expression softens into a smile. “Corvo Attano, at this time of morning!” The greeting makes Corvo scowl, but the man doesn't seem to notice. “You didn't sleep well.”

 

How he could have known that Corvo has no idea, but the outsider pulls out his headphones and fishes around in his bag, placing an ivory charm into Corvo’s hands. “What… What is this?” He asks dejectedly, because he can't find it within himself to tell him to go the fuck away. 

 

“It's whalebone,” the outsider hasn't let go of his hand yet and it's unnerving Corvo, he isn't used to people touching him for this long, “it will help you sleep.” Corvo doesn't want to question how legal raw whalebone is, but he grunts to acknowledge the gift. But then again, whalebone does often wash up along the shores and the whaling industry isn't exactly a secret… 

 

He pulls his hands away and shoves them in the pockets of his jeans because he doesn't generally feel the cold and didn't think to wear a jacket. The outsider clearly does feel the cold because he's wearing the heaviest of coats and a woollen scarf. “So, why are you awake at this time? Not even Slackjaw is awake yet, you know.” It's fairly easy to tell when Slackjaw is awake because he likes to turn the whisky stills on after his breakfast and so the whole of Dunwall has to put up with the collective yelling of his gang and their complaints. 

 

“Oh, Vera needs me to start early, something about a weather forecast,” the outsider tells him vaguely, just as Corvo notices the beginnings of snow falling from the heavens. As if his point is proven, the outsider looks to the sky. “There it is.”

 

“That's nice,” Corvo mumbles, but he doesn't really care. “I think I read somewhere that it's going to be a storm or something. I should get going, I promised Emily I'd get her some butteries from Tesco.” Dunwall only has one Tesco, not even an ASDA or a Sainsburys’. Corvo doesn't like Tesco, but he's forced to shop there or beg a lift from Samuel to the nearest town. 

 

“Ah, that's on my way to work,” the outsider tells him serenely, “I can walk with you.”

 

Corvo looks up quickly only to see the outsider's usual blank expression, but for some reason he looks somewhat hopeful. He shakes his head. “Oh, it's fine, I can just go on my own. Wouldn't want to bother you.”

 

“I would appreciate the company,” the outsider says quietly, following Corvo as he keeps walking. “And anyway,” he says, louder and more confidently, “you're very interesting, Corvo. After all, my darling Vera has been growing boring for some years now.”

 

Corvo sighs, realising that the outsider is going to stick to him like glue. “Fine,” he grumbles. After a moment he sighs. “What's your name, anyway?” 

 

The outsider shrugs. “Oh, it's boring. And uninteresting. I prefer the name that you gave me, what was it, was it Outsider?” Corvo nods halfheartedly. He doesn't even care how the Outsider found out. That man just seems to know things. “I am the Outsider,” the Outsider says dramatically. 

 

“Fine then,” Corvo shrugs. “Outsider.” 

 

“So,” he changes the subject, but Corvo still isn't really listening. He just wants to get to Tesco, get the butteries, and get ready for the day. “Your daughter, Emily. She's such a charming girl.” Corvo hums in agreement. “She came into my shop last week, you know. She was asking for information on the leviathans of the deep.”

 

“Mph, she is rather interested in whales. Wants to be a marine biologist when she grows up, so she's paying attention to all her science classes.” The snow is beginning to get heavier and so the Outsider raises his hands and all of a sudden the snow around them slows to a halt. It still flows around them, but it doesn't seem to touch them. “That… What the fuck?” Corvo demands. 

 

“Just a little magic I learnt a while back,” the Outsider tells him, but offers no further explanation. “Your daughter is certainly very competent,” he continues as if the miracle he'd just performed is absolutely nothing. Although, Corvo thinks, it probably is nothing. Not to this strange man at least, who walks like a god without a care in the world.

 

“Emily's always been precocious,” he nods. 

 

The Outsider smiles. “Yes, I've noticed that. I've certainly taken a liking to her, I think. Such courage in the face of the death of her mother is admirable.” Corvo twitches, but otherwise doesn't react. The Outsider doesn't seem to be goading him, it seems to be a genuine observation. 

 

“Ah, here's Tesco,” he says quickly. “I'll let you be on your way. Granny Rags must be missing you.”

 

The Outsider frowns. “Nobody but me seems to remember Vera’s name anymore. Granny, Granny, Granny. Dear old Granny Rags, nobody can tell if she's a witch or just crazy.” It's obvious that the Outsider cares deeply for this woman, in his own strange way. Corvo tries his hardest to remember Granny Rags’ name. 

 

“Vera…” It takes him a while and the Outsider looks at him expectantly. “I think Jessamine once mentioned a Vera Moray but that's all I can think of.”

 

The Outsider nods approvingly. “Jessamine always did have a long memory. I believe Vera once turned down an offer of marriage from our dear Empress’s father.”

 

This information is both interesting and confusing. “Why do you call her an empress?” The Outsider visibly pauses. 

 

“Perhaps in another life,” he replies. “But I believe Jessamine was the type to oversee the world with an iron fist. She could easily have named herself as a ruler and I doubt anyone in Dunwall would have argued. It is rare that people like politicians but your wife secured the hearts of many.”

 

“She isn't my wife,” Corvo cuts in, his stomach churning. He's fully aware that he finds it hard to speak in the past tense. “She…”

 

“No need to explain, my dear. You're still grieving, I shouldn't have brought up the subject.” The snow grows heavier still and it is beginning to become clear that a blizzard is on the way. Maybe Corvo should have worn a coat after all. “Ah, I think I'm running late, my dear Corvo. It was nice talking to you, though.” Before the man can speak, the Outsider hurries away. 

 

“What on earth,” Corvo mutters under his breath, noticing that the snow has begun to touch him again and it is piercing cold. At least, he thinks dully, he is alone. He doesn’t have to make small talk anymore, which has never been one of his talents. He hurries to the warm, welcoming doors of the supermarket and brushes snow away from his hair and shoulders, wondering if by the time he gets back he will be blanketed in snow.   
Tesco is quiet at this time of the morning despite the advertised 24-hour services, and the staff at the checkouts are rubbing their eyes, reading papers, and scowling- something Corvo finds he can relate to. It doesn’t take him long to walk to the bakery aisle, where the smell of fresh, warm bread is strong, filling the man with a sense of hope for the day. 

 

Unfortunately, there is not a single buttery to be found, no matter how hard Corvo looks. His eyebrows furrow as he looks for somebody to question about it, but almost as if he’s been watched, the bakery staff scurry away into the staff-only zones, where Corvo can’t follow. Surely they aren’t hiding from him, he tells himself, but it’s half hearted and he’s pretty sure that Lydia has warned people to run from Corvo Attano is on the warpath.

 

Wonderful. He can’t even get his daughter some butteries. He’s such a great father.

 

Corvo looks around the shelves with a sigh, thinking to himself. Emily likes pain au chocolat, right? Of course she does, everybody does. But then again, he doesn’t remember her ever eating them- 

 

“Fuck it,” Corvo mutters. “She asked for chocolate, she’ll get her damn chocolate.” Not bothering to use the proper utensils, he picks up four pastries and shoves them into a paper bag, not caring of the weight. He reserves one last glare for the bakery department, then turns to walk away.

 

He swears that he sees people dart back to their stations once he’s at a suitable distance. Perhaps Lydia did warn them after all. “Never mind that,” he steels himself as he picks up a jar of coffee. It's getting more expensive; it was three coin last week but now it's just over five. Typical. 

 

He's got the food, he's got the coffee, he's done here. Corvo takes his wallet from his pocket to check how much cash he's got on him, and luckily he's got enough to scrape by without having to pull out his card. 

 

He can hear the strong wind batter the supermarket about, and almost cringes at the thought of having to walk home in a storm. Corvo looks for a window. 

 

“Why am I not surprised to find you here, not wearing a jacket,” a voice from behind him chastises. He scowls. Corvo would know that voice anywhere, unfortunately. 

 

“Sister,” he greets, forcing himself to smile purely because he knows that she hates it. “I haven't seen you in a while, I've missed you.” Delilah Copperspoon is dressed in black, her arms behind her back. It looks as if she's scheming but that's just Corvo's opinion. 

 

“Attano,” Delilah says stiffly. “You didn't walk here, did you?” When Corvo says nothing, she rolls her eyes. “Wonderful. I hope you didn't drag along the child.”

 

“Emily isn't here,” he hums. Hopefully if he kills her with kindness she'll go away. It's unlikely, but Corvo likes to think that he's a glass-half-full kind of person, even if he really isn't. 

 

“Well, we have that to be thankful for at least. So you left her at home?”

 

Corvo's smile is unwavering, resolute. “Yes.”

 

Delilah’s expression twists into something awfully smug that Corvo is only too used to seeing. “That's terrible parenting, I tell you. Leaving a young girl on her own in a small house in a big city? The child would be far better off with me. I wouldn't do that to her.”

 

“Nice try, Copperspoon-”

 

“Kaldwin.”

 

“-but Emily stays with me. No dice.” Still smiling, Corvo walks away from her. He's never enjoyed running into his “half sister”-in law, and that's never going to change. 

 

Thank god she doesn't follow him. It looks like Corvo’s in for one of the worst days of his life, snow, the Outsider, Delilah, and it's not even 10 AM yet. Perhaps he's exaggerating, but he's just not in the mood for this. 

 

The wind continues to howl and Corvo sighs, finally deciding to go to the clothing aisle to buy a jacket. He can't walk home without one in the storm, he just can't.

 

The jacket he chooses is simple, and it's cheap, which suits him just fine, but it'll keep him warm and dry for the walk home. He walks to the checkout (self-service: he can't bear to look any of the cashiers in the eye) and pays for his loot and yes, he does want a bag with that, and he's all too eager to leave the eerily silent supermarket now that he knows that Delilah is there. 

 

Unfortunately for him, that opinion changes as soon as he gets out of the front door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith isn't doing too great.

Keith slides the cassette into the tape player, letting static buzz into his brain with a soft smile. It's not as relaxing as it usually is because it makes the snow seem much colder than it actually is, and if there is one thing he hates, it's the cold. Unfortunately he doesn't know any herbal remedies for keeping away the cold and he knows that Vera isn't going to share any of hers any time soon, so he's stuck with a fluffy hot water bottle strapped to his chest under his shirt and it is still not enough. 

 

Nothing ever seems to be enough anymore; he's always bored, he's always cold, he's always annoyed and he is never satisfied anymore. He remembers the good old days when he used to hang around with Daud, but those are long gone. Daud doesn't like him anymore- not that Keith cares because he's begun to find Daud boring- so now he's stuck with Vera, and although he does adore her, she's grown old and now she's far from interesting. He needs something new, he tells himself, but he can't be bothered contemplating anything in case nothing changes, which is what normally happens. He doesn't want to get his hopes up. 

 

His hands are trembling from the cold when he unlocks the door, and he wonders why it's so damn hard just to get a key in the lock. “Vera,” he mumbles as the door opens, so heavy that he needs to shove it, hard. “Vera, good morning!” 

 

No reply, of course, but Keith is not really all that surprised at that. He takes his coat off and hangs it neatly from the hanger, then pulls the cassette player from his pocket by the string and stops it. “Vera!” 

 

At this, there's a faint mumbling that makes Keith frown, pulling off his gloves and wandering through the door behind the counter. “Dreary, dreary, dreary,” come the whispers, and Keith sighs. It seems like Vera’s having one of those days. 

 

“Vera,” he says softly, taking her by the shoulders. “Vera, dear, don't be this way.” She looks up at him, those milky white eyes boring into his own soulless black. She keeps repeating herself- dreary dreary dreary- and it takes all of Keith's energy not to walk out the door that instant. Lately Vera has become so dull, so boring, and it's getting on Keith’s nerves. 

 

She doesn't stop, and Keith tries to drown out her needless prattle. “I met Corvo today,” he tells her. She's not listening. “My dearest Corvo. He was out in the storm without a jacket, you know. I worry about him. He called me something special, too.” Vera still repeats that one word. “He called me ‘Outsider’, darling. I think I like it.”

 

He looks at her, letting his hands fall to his sides. She seems to look away, shuffling around in circles, dreary dreary dreary. Keith knows that she's better than this, knows that she's more in control of herself than she's making herself seem, and groans loudly, covering his eyes. “Be quiet, Vera!” He hisses eventually, and the old woman pauses. Stops. And then continues on like Keith hadn't spoken to her at all. 

 

To put his headphones back in would be extremely rude, he knows, but he's getting to the point where he doesn't know how to handle Vera anymore. She needs help, and he tells her this frequently, help that he can't give. For the past few years, Keith has been watching her lose her mind and he just can't deal with it anymore. 

 

Some days she's just as sharp as ever, witty and funny and talkative. She makes jokes and tells riddles and sometimes even speculates on what the future holds. He loves that part of her. However, most days are like this. Her mind just seems to go blank and she repeats simple phrases and words and doesn't do much else. Occasionally she'll say a prophecy of some sort but never anything of use. 

 

Perhaps this woman hasn't been Vera Moray for a long time now. Perhaps this woman really and truly is Granny Rags, like the boys down the street jeer at her.

 

Keith doesn't want to think about that. 

 

He tries to block her out and waits for the first customer of the day, sitting down by the cash register like always. He rubs his temples in frustration and pulls open a drawer to his side, taking out a lump of bone and a knife. 

 

Keith makes all the charms himself from whalebone he finds along the beaches, and luckily it's been keeping the business from going under. As the best tourist shop in Dunwall (considering there's only two) people flock to hear tales of history and also, if that wasn't enough, they sell ice cream. It's not very exciting, but Keith enjoys it. It's kept his interest for this long, anyway. 

 

As he carves the bones, letting shavings drift into a pile on his desk, his mind drifts to the storm outside and Corvo, dear sweet Corvo walking home to even dearer, sweeter still Emily Kaldwin at home. Corvo must be so cold now, he thinks morosely. 

 

He's barely paying attention to the shape he's carving the bone into, so when he glances down the shape of a rat makes him smile. He’ll give it to Emily later if she ever comes back, he knows that she's always wanted one. But he doubts that'll be today. It would be a complete error in Corvo’s judgement, and he's better than that. 

 

It seems Vera has calmed down now, to Keith’s sad delight, but now he can relax and get more work down. Dunwall in the winter isn't quite as bad as Tyvia at any time of the year, which he's thankful for. The thought of the harsh winters of his homeland make him shudder. Cold is bad: it's a survival instinct that's been rooted into his mind for years now. 

 

At about noon, the first customer of the day walks through the door and Keith puts the knife away in anticipation, only to be met with disappointment as the patron removes his hood. “Daud,” he greets coldly, and the man nods his acknowledgement. “I don't have anything for you, so you might as well leave before you waste any more of my time.”

 

Daud raises an eyebrow but otherwise doesn't comment as he looks around. Keith has no idea what's keeping him- they don't exactly run a large shop. But the man keeps his gaze fixed on the shelves, seeming to eye a snow globe in the display. Keith narrows his eyes and gets up from his spot behind the counter, walking behind him. “Didn't you hear me? I asked you to leave. There's nothing for you here.”

 

“Oh, I heard you alright,” Daud counters in that low, gravelly voice that always captivated him, “but there's something I want.” There's nothing warm in that voice anymore. It's clear that Daud doesn't like him, which suits Keith just fine. Daud was always expendable anyway.

 

“Hurry up, then,” he mutters, because as much as he dislikes Daud, he's hardly going to turn down the offer of cold hard cash. 

 

“A spell, and a bonecharm.” 

 

Keith doesn't bother pointing out that the bonecharm Daud will be buying won't actually do anything, because for some reason he feels a sick satisfaction from the fact that he's swindling Daud out of pocket. “What kind of spell? You know I told you I won't give you anything new.”

 

“I see you still have your contacts in,” Daud stalls. It's his damn way of pretending to make conversation when he really just wants to observe what's around him. It's the kind of thing that makes Keith wonder exactly what he wants. Does he want an argument? Does he just want to annoy him? Keith can't tell, but he knows that if Daud didn't want anything, he would be in and out of the shop without the chitchat. Keith bites his tongue, resisting the strong urge to go back to his desk and ignore him until he leaves. 

 

“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “Yes, I still have these contacts. What of it?”

 

Daud looks him dead in the eyes, black meeting ice blue. “Perhaps you could get glasses.”

 

“I could,” he nodded. “But I don't want to.” He's really not used to being on the receiving end of the mocking. He doesn't like it. Daud simply shrugs, a slight smirk on his lips. 

 

“Can't you just use your magic to restore your sight then?” He's pushing it and he knows it, making Keith cross his arms. Daud chuckles with the knowledge that he's won their little game. “Alright, Star, I'm done here. Just give me a spell to keep the cold out.”

 

If Keith’s expression wasn't sour already, then it is now. “I'd like that too.” Thinking of- that hot water bottle has long gone cold. He sighs, pulling it out from under his shirt. His stomach has gone a nice pink colour that hasn't quite faded yet, and he pretends not to notice Daud's critical stare as he drops it on his desk. When he turns around again, Daud is still looking at the water bottle. “It's pink,” he snaps. “So what? I don't have time for this today.”

 

“Well, I don't have time for ‘this’ ever. I'm a busy man, Star, and so are you. I just want to make sure you know how irritating it is to be bothered while you're working.” It's a valid point, but Keith pretends he doesn't notice. 

 

“I wouldn't know what you're talking about, Daud. Now, a bone charm?” He looks at Daud with tired eyes and Daud looks back with an uncharacteristically smug expression. “You're trying my patience, my dearest. What kind of charm?”

 

“Strong Arms,” Daud says eventually. Vera begins mumbling from the other room and Keith shoots her a look that the other man notes with a certain curiosity. 

 

At this moment Keith realises that their positions have seemingly been reversed since they stopped being whatever they were- friends, maybe. Acquaintances, probably. Two people who met one time and then occasionally had coffee together? Definitely. That's what they were to each other. It used to be that Keith would somehow end up in the Financial District once a week, drinking tea with Billie Lurk and waiting for Daud to finish whatever he was doing. The fact that Daud is now doing this to him bothers him. Keith shakes his head. 

 

“Now, this is interesting. Why on earth would you of all people need a charm that lets you choke people faster? You're not a violent man, not as far as I know. Now this-”

 

“Don't psychoanalyse me, Keith.” The use of his name makes Keith twitch, and Daud hums, taking out his wallet. “I'll give you thirty coin if you don't ask questions.”

 

Keith’s eyes widen and Daud takes his hand and drops the thirty coin into his palm. The look that he's giving him would definitely win at poker, that's for sure. “I can't tell if you're serious,” Keith tells him, just about managing to keep the confusion from ebbing into his voice. Daud shrugs. 

 

“Fifty coins, then. Just don't go telling anyone.” Daud fishes the extra coin out, adding that to the bundle in Keith’s hand, and crosses his arms. “Get on with it, Star.” 

 

“Pick a name and stick to it,” Keith mutters, “I'm not your Star anymore. You can call me the Outsider or nothing at all.” 

 

Daud shakes his head. “Outsider, huh? That's what you're going by now? A little pretentious, don't you think?”

 

“I don't care what you feel about it, it's my name now. I've decided.” Daud gives him a knowing look as Keith dumps the money in the cash register, glancing at the rat charm he's been carving for the past while. It's not finished yet, so it won't work, which is perfect for this occasion. But he's still planning on giving it to Emily, so that doesn't quite work. Begrudgingly, he finds a working bone charm and hands it to Daud. 

 

“Been a pleasure dealing with you,” the man tells him as he slips it into his pocket. 

 

“Get out. Just go, Daud.” He waves a hand halfheartedly as the man drops another coin onto the desk. Just as Keith looks down, Daud swipes the water bottle and heads out the door. This coin looks like a tip- a five this time. 

 

Keith congratulates himself for making fifty five coin in a day when it dawns on him that his only source of heat in the freezing apothecary is gone. 

 

“Moron,” he curses under his breath. He's not sure if he's directing it at himself or Daud. Either works.


End file.
